


Dog-Watch in Ostagar

by beetle



Series: Under Moonlight, Well-Met: A Dragon Age Origins Series [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Elf/Human Relationship(s), Elves, F/M, First Kiss, Grey Wardens, Korcari Wilds, M/M, Mages, Moonlight, Ostagar, Romance, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 04:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10297586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Mage Daelyn Surana can’t sleep his first night in Ostagar. He's not the only one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [TheAmazingBlue_J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAmazingBlue_J/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Um. Spoilers, I guess? For DA: O, the very beginning? Takes place on the protagonist’s first night in Ostagar, assuming that he, Alistair, Ser Jory, and Daveth take a night to rest before they go questing in the Wilds.
> 
> And thank you to the marvelous Stitchcasual and TheAmazingBlue_J for being so kind and patient with me. Thanks, you guys <3

Daelyn Surana bolted out of a thin, nightmare-ridden sleep, covered in a light sheen of sweat, a woolen blanket, and not much else.

 

Blinking in the dim, pale-gold light of the lamp left burning near the partially open flap of the tent, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the relative brightness, after the deep dark of his dreams. His breathing, though accelerated, was not as labored as even that of his sleeping human companions, having shot up to a hasty five breaths per minute.

 

And every time he blinked, he could see, on the backs of his eyelids, Jowan and Lily, as he’d last seen them: Jowan covered in blood, his normally skittish, frightened brown eyes gone feral and hunted. And Lily—poor Lily—her head hung in shame and despair . . . accepting of her fate because life had suddenly held nothing else for her. . . .

 

“No,” Daelyn whispered, denying the memory the power it’d had on him all during the ride to Ostagar—Duncan had no doubt noticed that his ward often called out in his sleep, and woke up in the night, trembling and shuddering, but was good enough to not pester said ward about it—and the sense of fear and melancholy that’d been with him since the Fade the attention he’d heretofore lavished on it.

  
Instead, he focused on his surroundings: the men sleeping to either side of him; the homely light of the lamp, burning low, but banishing the darkness of his strange, new surroundings; and the friendly sounds of the crackling fire, not too far distant. Daelyn could hear the soldiers who had the dog watch stopping to chat at the fire before moving on their circuits around and throughout the encampment.

 

There was a harsh, loud snort to his left: Ser Jory, almost bringing down the entire encampment with his lusty, determined snores. The big knight lay flat on his back, sprawled beyond the bounds of his wide pallet, his heavy, blue blanket barely covering his sides.

 

To Daelyn’s right lay Daveth, restless and motive. The lanky former-cutpurse was curled in on himself in fetal position—blankets kicked to the foot of his pallet—one moment, then tossing into a new position the next. Though that new position always ended with the ex-thief tucked into a protective ball, whilst muttering in negation of someone—or something—in his sleep.

 

Daelyn’s curiosity about his two peers—both candidates for the Grey Wardens, like himself—turned into near-amusement by their polar-opposite demeanors, even when asleep. Awake, they were just as opposed: Daveth always talking loud and brashly, and acting somewhat clownish . . . and Ser Jory speaking only when asked or when seeking clarification, otherwise giving credence to the old stereotype of the strong, silent type.

 

While Daelyn. . . .

 

 _And here am I, betwixt the two opposites, as ever. And in more ways than one_ , Daelyn thought with a sigh, rubbing tired, irritable eyes. On this, his first true night of safe rest since his Harrowing, Daelyn was still plagued by the same nightmares that’d chased him on the road from the High Tower, all the way to Ostagar. And he dreamt not of Templars and burning, or even darkspawn and being devoured, body and soul . . . but of his one-time friend Jowan . . . and of Lily, who’d risked all for love of Jowan.

 

Just as Daelyn had risked all for . . . friendship? Love? Spite against the very hand that’d taken him in, and sheltered, fed, and taught him?

 

No, for none of _those_ reasons, even. Daelyn had helped Jowan out of hope. Hope that at least _one_ of them had a chance at happiness. At _freedom_. That one of them could make a go at a normal life . . . the sort of life Daelyn supposed he, himself, must have had, once upon a time, before the magic manifested itself in a way that caught the attention of the Templars.

 

(He _supposed_ . . . but did not _remember_. He’d been so very _young_. . . .)

 

Daelyn had helped a blood-mage—innocently, and unbeknownst to him, but, then, the road to perdition was _paved_ with both ignorance and good intentions—break into a phylactery that’d held the blood, the very _life-essence_ of hundreds of magi.

 

What horrors could have been wrought, had Jowan been of a mind? What wicked magic could have been initiated and let loose on the world?

 

And what of the poor initiate, Lily? What would have become of _her_ had she been under blood-thrall when they were caught?

 

What _would become_ of her, being sent to the dreaded Aeonar for the crime of falling in love with a man whom she hadn’t _really_ known?

 

Shaking his head to clear it of the fog of what-ifs and nightmares—of Jowan slashing at himself with a dagger until all was blood and blood- _energy_ . . . and dead Templars—Daelyn pushed his blanket to the side and scrambled to his feet without much of his usual grace. Dressed only in the plain, grey cotton trousers many mages wore under their robes, he shoved his feet into his similarly colored and made boots, and grabbed his undershirt.

 

In the low, flickering lamplight, he made his way out of their tall tent, hoping moonlight and the night’s air could drive away his megrims.

 

#

 

“So, it’s _true_ , then?”

 

Daelyn, looked away from the light of the moon and to his left.

 

He’d heard Alistair’s approach, of course. Between the keenness of his elven senses and the human not attempting any sort of stealth, Daelyn had heard the other man not only make his way up the dusty, marble incline, to the fallen and tumbled columns where they’d first met, but had heard the cheery greetings Alistair had made to the king’s and the teyrn’s guards on the way up to the highest spot in the encampment.

 

Now, Daelyn watched the blond soldier stride casually closer, stopping only just outside Daelyn’s personal bubble. Alistair smelt strongly of pine and sap, faintly of sweat and woodsmoke. His grey eyes seemed silver in the setting moonlight, his spiky, tousled hair the color of winter wheat. He wasn’t much taller than Daelyn, really—about average height for a human . . . an inch or two under six feet—but he certainly seemed to tower. Seemed rougher, tougher, and stronger. In his Grey Warden gear, he looked to be all brawny muscle and good, solid bones. When he stopped in front of Daelyn, the Mage had to look up slightly to meet those twinkling, amused eyes.

 

“What's true?” Daelyn asked, giving the other man a cool, wary sort of appraisal. Alistair grinned, showing off very white, only slightly crooked teeth. They somehow made his charming, wry smile, somewhat . . . endearing. Or so Daelyn supposed. He’d never in his memory recalled having been endeared to anyone or anything. The closest he’d ever had to that was his uneven friendship with Jowan and his admiration of the First Enchanter.

 

Daelyn couldn’t imagine why he might be feeling such an emotion for a person he didn’t know, but the wide world was every bit as strange as he’d heard rumors about. And he hadn’t even seen the half of it, yet.

 

“That elves are in their element under a full moon,” Alistair said, his low, smoky voice both teasing and inviting at the same time. “That they draw both sustenance and power from her light.”

 

Daelyn blinked, then glanced up at the moon for a moment, thoughtfully. “I had not heard of such a phenomenon,” he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to see if, under the cleansing, pure light of the moon, he felt . . . different than he had in the lamp-leavened dark of the tent—or even the light of day.

 

He felt . . . calmer, yes. But, certainly not stronger or more puissant. Unlike the sun, the moon was a gentler source of light and energy. A cooler source of heat. It was patient and calm. And it waited.

 

For what, Daelyn didn’t know, only that it had kept vigil for an eternity of nights, and would for an eternity more . . . ever alone, but lighting up the Heavens with her pure, silvery light. With her _hope_.

 

It was as plain as the nose on Daelyn’s face that the moon wasn’t for those who sought power and fame, but for those who sought guidance and peace. A path and a light in the darkest of times. Certainly, a power all its own, but not the sort of power most people craved.

 

Finally, he snorted and opened his eyes to see the self-same satellite hanging large and luminous in the midnight-velvet of the sky, as constant as her rival and partner, the sun, yet infinitely kinder. “Codswallop,” he declared, looking down at Alistair haughtily. “As so many human stories turn out to be. I fain would guess that—why are you looking at me that way?”

 

Alistair, his smile gone, was staring at Daelyn as if the other man had grown a second head, right next to the first. Daelyn was tempted to check, to reach up and make sure there was just the _one head_ , as usual, but didn’t. For the moment, he would just assume that he hadn’t grown any extra appendages and that the issue lay with Alistair.

 

And surely, the human seemed quite stunned by something, his silver eyes wide, his wide, mobile mouth slightly open. He was scanning Daelyn’s face as if he’d never seen an elf before.

 

Eyes narrowing, Daelyn crossed his arms. “Warden Alistair, is something the matter?”

 

“No, no,” the other man breathed, laughing a bit nervously and clearing his throat as he looked down, his brow furrowed. “It’s just . . . wow . . . the myth _is_ true, after all. Wonders never cease.”

 

Frowning, Daelyn looked down, too. Saw only his own narrow feet in their worn grey boots. “I have already disputed your assumption that elves—or at least _I_ —draw any sort of power or sustenance from the moon.”

 

“That’s not the myth to which I was referring, Master Mage.”

 

At the slight change in Alistair’s voice—lower and rougher than it had been—Daelyn looked up again, still frowning. Alistair was staring at him once more, eyes twinkling and amused, yet again.

 

“Then to wh-what myth were you referring, Warden Alistair?”

 

Alistair’s eyes seemed to darken as a cloud passed briefly across the face of the moon, then brighten like they were lit from within when the cover passed. “The one that says _all_ elves are beautiful, but never more so than when under the light of a full moon.”

 

“I—” Daelyn flushed and fell silent for a few moments, utterly at a loss for words. Then _he_ cleared _his_ throat and tried to will away that flush which—even in the moonlight—would no doubt show up as a darkening of his pallid-pale skin, from the portion of his chest revealed by the open collar of his shirt, to the very tips of his long ears . . . only partially hidden by his for once unbraided, platinum hair. “I have heard no such claims made by anyone. Ever.”

 

Alistair’s brows lifted in teasing disbelief. “No one’s ever told you that elves—that _you_ are beautiful? And _especially_ radiant in the moonlight?”

 

“I—no.” Flustered and completely unprepared for the turn this conversation had taken, Daelyn could only answer honestly. Alistair shook his head.

 

“I’d ask if they raised nothing but eunuchs in that precious Tower of yours, but, unfortunately, I know the ways of the Circle of Magi. And of Templars. I don’t imagine either group, but mages, especially, would have spared a moment to tell an apprentice he was anything other than competent—or not—at his studies.” Tilting his head curiously, Alistair sighed. “I suppose it would’ve been rather inappropriate to compliment the beauty of one’s ‘prentice, though.”

 

“Very,” Daelyn agreed breathlessly, still flushing deeply and ducking his head to hide it. _Alistair’s_ brown boots were worn, but sturdy and well-kept. Not very dirty, for a Warden who spent his days tromping about the Wilds. . . .

 

The next thing Daelyn knew he was looking up into Alistair’s silver eyes; the Warden had placed two callused fingers under Daelyn’s chin and tilted Daelyn’s face up toward his own.

 

“Well, then, Daelyn Surana soon-to-be-Mage-of-the-Grey-Wardens,” Alistair said solemnly, even though he was still smiling. “Let me be the first to tell you, then: You are . . . _beautiful_ —both enchanting and comely—even in the harsh, gaudy light of day. But, ‘neath M’lady Moon, well . . . by Andraste, you are . . . indescribably lovely and serene. Your skin is as smooth and unmarred as a saucer of cream. Your eyes glow like lavender gems. Your mouth is soft and curving, like a pink rose and, on the all-too-rare occasions when you smile, you almost literally glow.”

 

Eyes wide and unblinking, caught in Alistair’s gaze, Daelyn could only lick his useless lips, noting the way Alistair’s eyes flicked down to watch the motion, then back up, flashing with some strange . . . _yearning_ that all but scorched Daelyn, after a fashion. Which further caused his normally well-modulated body to flush harder, until it felt in danger of overheating even as he stammered. “I . . . I . . . am _nothing_. I’m _no one_ , I—I’m just _Daelyn Surana_. Just an _elf_ , like any other.”

 

Alistair snorted. “You, my lovely mage, are not _just_ anything, I’ll wager. If you were, you wouldn’t have earned those hideous, rather dumpy robes you mages wear and which—by the way—hides the sort of figure a man could spend decades admiring and never grow bored,” he added, giving Daelyn a once over as he reluctantly let go of his chin. “Maker’s bones! One would never guess such a slender, graceful form would hide so much power and determination.”

 

Daelyn’s brows lifted in shock. “H-How do _you_ know how much power and determination I’ve got?”

 

“You survived your Harrowing, did you not? Overcame a demon, did you not? Managed to . . . persuade the First Enchanter and the head of the Circle's Templars not to have you executed without a trial?” _Alistair’s_ brows shot up again and Daelyn turned just a bit redder—at this point, he was certain he was cerise. The other man chuckled. “As I said, then: _You_ are not _just_ _anything_.”

 

Daelyn shook his head in bafflement. “I don’t understand. . . .”

 

“What is it you don’t understand, Daelyn?”

 

Shivering at the way Alistair purred his question—especially the part of it that was Daelyn’s name—Daelyn swallowed around a sudden frog in his throat. “Why you’re . . . _saying_ these things to me?” Shaking his head again, he looked away, at the unhelpful moon. “What is it you _want_ from me?”

 

“Want?” Now, Alistair looked baffled.

 

“Yes! Just— _ask me_ for it, rather than say things that . . . _confuse_ me!”

 

Daelyn could feel Alistair’s gaze on his face, intent and piercing. Thoughtful.

 

“Alright,” the Warden finally said, soft and low, moving even closer to Daelyn, until Daelyn instinctively looked up into his eyes. “There _is_ one thing I would like from you, Daelyn Surana.”

 

Swallowing again, his eyes gone wide once more, Daelyn nodded. “If it’s not in my power—”

 

“I assure you, it will be.”

 

“Then . . . ask.”

 

Alistair grinned. “I ask . . . for a kiss.”

 

For a little while, anyway, all Daelyn could do was gape at the young Warden. Then he was sputtering. “Y-You want me to—to _k-kiss_ you?!”

 

“No,” Alistair said patiently, that mischievous twinkle back in his eyes again. “ _I_ wish to kiss _you_.”

 

Taken briefly aback, Daelyn blinked. “Is there a difference?”

 

“I think you’ll find that there _is_ ,” Alistair promised, reaching up to brush a trailer of Daelyn’s thick, slightly wavy hair behind his right ear. “If you say _yes_ , that is.”

 

“And why w-would I?” Daelyn tried to demand, but it was really a breathy moan that was mostly a response to the fleeting caress of Alistair’s rough fingers across the tip of his ear. He shivered so hard, Alistair noticed, and chuckled. “Why would I let you k-kiss me?”

 

Those silvery eyes were half-lidded and unreadable. “That’s not for _me_ to say, only for you to _decide_.”

 

And, so saying, Alistair fell silent, standing at a patient parade-rest before Daelyn, as if Daelyn was a visiting dignitary.

 

Daelyn, meanwhile was left empty-brained and out of words—with no prior experience to guide him. With no idea what he wanted, or _should_ want and allow.

 

 _Jowan and Lily were willing to risk everything for this. For a life that included, among other things, kisses and closeness and . . . just_ living _beyond the narrow expectations and mores of the Circle. They were willing to_ die _for this. Even though it all went wrong, they thought it_ worth dying for _._

 

Daelyn didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until the small voice that seemed to reverberate throughout his entire being—it sounded like _Lily’s_ voice—stopped speaking. His eyes flew open automatically, to see Alistair had leaned in very close, his own silver eyes fluttering shut.

 

“ _No_ ,” Daelyn breathed decisively, and those fluttering eyes flew open, just as his own had. Alistair blinked at him, surprised and . . . disappointed.

 

“Ah. Ah-ha-ha. Right, then. _No_ , it is. Alright. I’ll, er. . . .” Alistair began awkwardly, starting to back away from Daelyn, who stepped forward and bounced up on his toes—so he and Alistair were eye-to-eye—as he put his hands on either side of Alistair’s stubbly face, turning it back toward his own.

 

Drawing the other man closer—or at least stilling his anxious retreat from their private section of the ruins—Daelyn narrowed his gaze and bit his lip. Alistair’s eyes were round and confused.

 

“Er,” the Grey Warden said and Daelyn huffed.

 

“ _This_ is how we’ll do it: _I’ll_ kiss _you_. For a period not lasting longer than one minute. And if I like it . . . _if_ I like it, after a moment to confer, _you_ may kiss _me_ for the same amount of time.” Alistair started to grin and Daelyn narrowed his eyes again. “If I _don’t_ like kissing you . . . you _won’t_ press me for another and we’ll never speak of it again. Have we a deal, Warden Alistair?”

 

“Yes. Very much so. We have a deal.” Alistair nodded eagerly, making a ridiculous, pucker-lipped, closed-eyes face. “I await your kiss, Mage Surana.”

 

“Alright, then.” Daelyn huffed again, but nonetheless found himself blushing once more, as he stroked Alistair’s scruffy cheeks with his thumbs. “Hold still.”

 

Then he was leaning in to press his lips lightly, hesitantly, to Alistair’s.

 

After a few startled moments, he made a soft sound of surprise and leaned in to intensify the press, marveling at the gentle tingling sensation that started at his lips, but spread like a wildfire throughout his body . . . a wildfire that seemed to end with his groin before rapid-fire reversing that process. Only to start all over again from the beginning. And—

 

“Time’s up, Mage Surana,” Alistair was murmuring on his lips with a brief peck that left Daelyn moaning again, embarrassingly. Or it would’ve been embarrassing if his entire body didn’t feel as if it was about to burst into flames. “And the verdict?”

 

“Whah?” Daelyn asked absently, his eyes fluttering open to stare into Alistair’s. They were as mesmerizing as the moon above. “Verdict?”

 

“Yes. May I claim _my_ kiss from you, or am I to be left repining for what might have been?”

 

“Erm,” Daelyn said, trying to cudgel his blank brain into working properly. For the life of him, he couldn’t think beyond the way his lips and body still tingled, and _burned_. . . .

 

“I’ll take that as a _yes_ , then,” Alistair murmured, his eyes flicking down to Daelyn’s mouth for a second. Then—placing his large, rough hands on Daelyn’s hips and pulling him close—Alistair was closing the distance between their mouths. His lips seemed to caress and tease Daelyn’s for long, startling moments, before they parted and Alistair’s _tongue_ was doing the caressing and teasing.

 

Gasping in utter bestartlement, Daelyn could only whimper when Alistair’s tongue slipped between his slightly parted lips, to tickle and tantalize Daelyn’s own tongue with precise finesse and obvious enjoyment.

 

“Sorry,” Alistair whispered on Daelyn’s kiss-swollen lips sometime later. The moon had completely set and false dawn had colored the air grey and indigo. The only things holding Daelyn up were his arms—which were wrapped around Alistair’s neck—and the strong hands clamped tight on his slim hips. His useless legs had turned to rubber; his knees, to water.

 

“Sorry?” Daelyn blinked up at Alistair with wide eyes and dilated pupils. “Wh-Whatever _for_?”

 

Grinning, Alistair leaned his forehead against Daelyn’s, nuzzling his nose. “That was longer than a minute, is all.”

 

Daelyn snorted out a giggle that was less than dignified, but he couldn’t bring himself to be bothered about it. Especially when Alistair joined him. Then kissed him. Then kissed him some more.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> And come see me on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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